


once we were

by fiendfall



Series: Seven Heralds AU [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: & deviates from canon hence these backstory bits, Assassination, Backstory, Gen, Minor Character Death, Religious Conflict, for my upcoming longfic, these are basically two oneshots of backstory, which will be fenhanders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-18
Updated: 2016-05-18
Packaged: 2018-06-09 04:15:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6889507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiendfall/pseuds/fiendfall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anders escapes Templar custardy and hides in a Chantry.</p><p>Fenris kills a stranger for his master.</p><p>__</p><p>In the Seven Heralds AU, seven strangers from across Thedas are brought together to defeat the Blight, but Hawke, Fenris, and Anders has a much more personal journey. This prequel takes place directly before the main story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Anders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Chantry tells him that this means he is called for some higher purpose, chosen by Andraste herself to join six other Heralds and save Thedas in its time of need.
> 
> But what if he doesn’t fucking want to?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for chantry abuses (mentions of sexual abuse & solitary confinement), + swearing
> 
> nothing explicit or discussed at length, but it's still there

They send him out with Cullen. Fucking _Cullen_ , of all the stuffed shirts they could’ve chosen.

Hey, it could be worse. It could be a Templar who _actually_ raped someone, rather than just following the apprentices round like a bashful dragon. Or – _ooh,_ _I know!_ – one of the Templars who called for Anders to be made Tranquil after his last escape attempt (or his first, or his second). Or even better, one of the ones who stood guard on him for the last fucking _year_ , laughed in his face when he begged to be let out, to see the sun, to walk more than four steps in a row without having to turn around. Being sent out with one of those monumental pricks would’ve been just _grand_.

So he gets Cullen. At least the guy’s a bit of an idiot. It’ll make escaping so much easier.

Really, he doesn’t know why they’re being so lax about security. Sure, they’ve got him drugged up to his eyeballs on magebane so he can’t so much as cough smoke, and there’s his phylactery, of course, but he’s escaped the Circle what, six times now? Do they really think _this_ is going to keep him locked down?

Then again… his phylactery is in Amaranthine, which is pretty close to where they’re headed. He could just wait a few days, put up with the magebane and the Chantry rhetoric and Cullen’s fucking _creepiness_. The man is so fucking genuine, like he really believes everything they stuffed down his throat in Templar Academy or wherever it is you go to learn how to be a prick. A good little soldier.

Anders keeps his mouth shut, and travels with Cullen until they’re nearly at Vigil’s Keep. And then, on the third night, he escapes.

They must have thought he wouldn’t run. It’s the only explanation for how easily he gets away, even without his magic. He’ll go to Amaranthine, find his phylactery, destroy it, and then be on the first ship out of Ferelden. Thedas has six other Heralds; they don’t need him.

Cullen comes after him, and there’s nowhere to hide.

And so that’s how he finds himself in the only building open at this time of the night, the only building willing to take in anyone no questions asked.

It’s the fucking Chantry, is what it is. Which is just bitterly ironic. Now he thinks of it, that kind of sums up his entire life.

Great, now he’s getting dark. (Because that never happened in the last year, no ser.)

About the only plus side this situation has is that there’s no way Cullen is ever looking for him in here.

There are effigies of Andraste all over the fucking place. Looking serene and valiant in the face of her martyrdom, a steadfast warrior of faith.

It’s all crap, is what it is. His skin itches with the injustice.

There’s no one else in the Chantry, not at this hour, not even the most pious sister knelt in the pews. The candles burn low, and Anders glares up at Andraste like he wants to burn her a second time.

He never used to be this bitter, he thinks. He was happy to live and let live, once, as long as no one was currently beating him. He could deal with never being truly free, because he had that tiny scrap of contement in his life that made it worth it. And Karl saw the ugly truth of the Circle – it’s impossible not to, not if you’re a mage – but he didn’t dream of running, not like Anders did. He believed a better future could be reached within the system.

Well, that didn’t fucking work.

It’s probably the solitary confinement, he realises. His egg’s scrambled now, his marbles fled, his brains all turned to gruel, slimy inside his skull. A year with nothing but four walls and a cat he’s fairly sure he hallucinated will do that to you.

They should’ve just made him Tranquil. They _could’ve_ , he knows that. Maybe it was Irving who fought for him to keep his magic, or maybe the Knight-Commander knows enough about magic to realise how rare spirit healers are. No, they didn’t take the Fade from him, they just took everything else: the real world, all contact with any other living being, the wind and the sun and the sky.

And now? Now they want him to _save_ them, they send him off to fight darkspawn with no mention of what _he_ might want, he’s just as much of a prisoner as he’s ever been, and Cullen is no doubt scouring the town to find him this very moment, ready to drag him back in chains, Herald or no.

He feels ready to explode, hot magic coiled in his belly _burning_ to be let free, no longer dampened by the magebane but still contained by it, still unable to reach his fingertips.

He bites his fist and screams.

 _He_ did this to him. He, the fucking Maker. _He_ made Anders a mage, _He_ made them hate him, made them-

He chokes, wants to scream again.

This is all _Him_ , all His doing. And for what? Why make him a fucking mage, if He hates them so much? If He hates _him_ so much? Why do it? So they could lock him up his whole life, imprison him until they have a use, until they _need_ him, and then send him out to die for a world he’s never been a part of, a world _they_ kept him from. Is that all there is for him? Four walls and a bloody death?

And now he is doubly marked, a starburst like sickness in his skin. He had not even realised it was there until they told him.

So close to that foul brand. No doubt the Templars wished it had been on his forehead instead of his wrist.

The Chantry tells him that this means he is called for some higher purpose, chosen by Andraste herself to join six other Heralds and save Thedas in its time of need.

But what if he _doesn’t fucking want to_?

What if he just wants to run away and find somewhere _safe_ , where he can have a house of his own and where he can _leave_ that house whenever he likes, maybe go into market, maybe have friends, maybe have a cat, maybe _anything_ , because that’s what freedom is: possibility.

He would give anything for that, for that mundane reality. Because it’s not mundane to him, it’s unattainable, it’s so far beyond what he has been taught to hope for.

All because the fucking Maker gave him magic and then decided he should be hated for it.

And now the Maker wants to give him another ‘gift’, another double-edged sword: with this mark, he becomes a hero, allowed to leave the Circle and travel Ferelden; with this mark, he is forced to fight a war that is not his to protect something that will never be his, for people that hate and fear everything he is.

The Maker asks too fucking much.

His father, he was the religious one. Straight from the harsh, barren Andrastrian Anderfels, he was a man who trembled at the Maker’s power – and that of his son. Except he didn’t send the Maker away in chains.

He realises he is crying, but the feeling is muffled, like he’s watching himself from afar, like it’s not really him. Too bad it is.

He wonders if the stories are true, if that little mark means he really was chosen by Andraste.

He wonders why she chose him.

He’s just a snotnosed kid who was taken from his family too young, a cocky mage who tried to escape one too many times, a broken man still running from his fate.

Did she really choose him? Did she really gaze into his soul, as the tale goes, and find something there, something no one but Karl had ever seen in him – not his parents, not the Circle, certainly not the Templars – worthiness?

She found him worthy, but to do what? To _be_ what?

Some little mark doesn’t mean he’s a hero.

Does it?

He sits in the Chantry and watches the candles cast flickering shadows on the face of Andraste. The shifting light makes the statue appear alive, animated; her gaze pierces his soul.

_Did you choose me?_

He gets no answer from the stone.

He could still run, he thinks. Cullen has not yet found him. He could still run.

He doesn’t.


	2. Fenris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He had once overheard a magister telling the master that he was both deadly and beautiful, and he supposes it must be true, for Master Danarius would settle for nothing but the best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for slavery, canon-typical violence, & minor character death (canonical)

The streets of Cumberland bustle with traffic, people of all races doing business beneath the baking midday sun. Dubbed the ‘crossroads of Thedas’, the city certainly has everything to offer: Fereldan furs, Orlesian silks, Antivan blades, Rivaini spices… If you have coin, there are a hundred worthy ways to spend it.

Fenris has no coin. Fenris has a sword and a mark, and nothing else.

The mark, an older man likely in his late forties and Rivaini in complexion, is currently examining some elaborately-styled glass vases from Nevarra, and has been for some time. Fenris, just close enough to keep the man within his view, has been waiting patiently for his moment all morning, and it is looking increasingly like he might have to wait till evening and tail the man back to his lodgings to do the deed. 

He tries to quell the flutter of frustration he feels – he is a bodyguard, not an assassin, and he isn’t trained for this. It’s hard not to see this as banishment, to be sent so far from the master’s side for so long. But these are the master’s orders, and to question them would be foolish. If Master Danarius requires him to be capable of such a task, then capable he will be.

Just as Fenris prepares himself for a whole day of patiently waiting for his chance, the man makes his purchase and moves away from the stall, unaware of the shadow following him along the busy street. It is all too easy for Fenris to make himself inconspicuous in such a throng, sliding through the crowds in pursuit of his prey. 

He is armed only with a broadsword, as he felt an elf wielding his usual longsword might attract unwanted attention, and his makings already did that enough. He might not have been trained as an assassin, but he knows enough to understand his master requires subtlety. Magisters hold little sway here, outside the borders of Tevinter in the barbarous south, and Fenris knows if he is caught in the act of murder the hangman’s noose will find his neck all too quickly. Worse still, he would have failed the master, and that thought alone is enough to spur Fenris to success.

The people on the streets grow sparser as they leave the merchant district, and Fenris finds himself having to fall farther and farther behind to avoid detection. The man wears bright silver armour decorated with a curious, swirling pattern, and carries only two blades – a short sword and dagger. Fenris knows that even without calling upon the lyrium he can defeat him in a heartbeat. The man, whoever he is, whatever he has done, will not stand a chance. 

Although, Fenris realises, he will need to be quick if he wishes to avoid slaughtering the man in his home, or wherever it is he is headed, as they seem to be approaching what he understand sto be the residential district towards the edge of the city.

Calmly, Fenris scans the street, which is now almost entirely empty. An old dwarf waters a window box of flowers, two human children play on the corner. If Cumberland customs are anything like those in Tevinter, the day will slow around its zenith as most people retreat inside to rest before the second half of the day. There is no better time than now. 

But there are too many eyes on this street, the place still too public, and though Fenris is confident in his own skill and the commands of the master, he is unused to making such decisions in the field. Taking defensive measures to protect the master’s life is one thing – it is something he is used to, something he has been trained for. This is another matter entirely. And yet failure is not an option.

He is spared the agony of decision, however, when his quarry turns down a side street that is entirely deserted. All the buildings are quiet, their shutters drawn over the windows to deflect the sun’s attention, all the doors latched, all the children safely inside. If he waits any longer, he might lose his window of opportunity. It has to be done now, and it has to be fast. 

Preparing himself, Fenris closes the distance between himself and his target, noticing the stiffening of the man’s back when he becomes aware of his pursuer. To his credit, the man makes no attempt to flee, instead turning to regard Fenris with a curious eye.

As both bodyguard and slave, Fenris is well-versed in the art of reading and judging a man before they even open their mouth, and something about his mark intrigues him. The man holds himself in a way that demands respect, confident and dignified, and yet his demeanour is quiet, unassuming almost – nothing like the brash arrogance and blatant posturing that Fenris is so used to. A noble man, then, more so than a nobleman. Not that it matters. He will die all the same.

‘Do you need aid?’ the man asks, and though the intonation is kindly enough Fenris can tell he is neither oblivious nor foolish. His target is sizing him up just as surely as Fenris is him.

An answer is not required; Master Danarius had not asked for any message to be relayed before the killing blow. Only death, swift and silent. He draws his sword.

‘You mean to fight me, then. May I ask what offence I have given, before we cross blades?’

It feels so antithetical to his training not to answer such direct questions, but Fenris has always been good at holding his tongue. It is strange, however, that this man does not recognise him – for surely if he knew Master Danarius well enough to have injured him in some way, he would at least have heard of Fenris. 

The master is ever proud of his masterpiece, something so unique even in the highest of magical society that the Archon himself elevated Master Danarius to the status of magister as recognition of his talent. Though much time has passed since then, it still pleases the master to display his work, and Fenris is well-used to being recognised. 

That this man does not know him, however, perhaps suggests he does not know Master Danarius either; perhaps it even means this assassination os a matter of business, rather than personal retribution, in which case why had a professional not been employed? Why send Fenris so far from home to perform a task a Crow could undertake in a second? Could it suggest the master is tiring of him? It had been perhaps ten years since his creation, maybe the master grows bored with such an old achievement. Or maybe he merely desires a slave who was younger, stronger, more pleasing. Does Fenris no longer satisfy him?

He swallows down his anxieties; it is his place neither to question nor to worry, and such thoughts will not help him here. All he can do was all he had ever done – perform his task, please the master, obey, obey, obey. Nothing else matters.

He steps forwards on light feet, sword ready to slice and stab, and his opponent barely has time to draw his own weapon before Fenris is upon him. Their blades lock, and all thoughts drain from Fenris’ head as the fight begins in earnest. 

This is what he was made for, this is the skill Master Danarius so prizes him for. Fenris wields his blade like it is an extension of himself; there is no distinction between weapon and man, steel and skin. He had once overheard a magister telling the master that he was both deadly and beautiful, and he supposes it must be true, for Master Danarius would settle for nothing but the best.

He is lithe and quick, but deceptively powerful, and after years of defending the master and being displayed in the arena, he can finish an enemy in mere moments. But this target proves difficult. He must have under-estimated the man in his earlier assessment – stupid! How stupid of him – because he strikes high and the man’s blade is there; low and he is met just the same. Every slash of his sword is met with another, every time he tries to outflank him the man is ready, every technique and manoeuvre he has the man anticipates. His opponent may be old, but he is impressively skilled.

Not skilled enough. Fenris feints high, brings his sword down towards the man’s head, and when his opponent raises his own blade to block it, Fenris takes the opening. He sinks his arm into the man’s chest, fingers sliding through muscle and bone to grasp the beating heart within. The man’s breath hitches, his grip on the sword weakening.

‘What-’

Fenris does not wait to hear any more. He rips the organ from his mark’s chest, watches as the man crumples to the ground, his blood staining the cobblestones. He lies on the ground, gasping, as if his demise is a result of a lack of air rather than a gaping hole through his chest. Finally he lies still, and Fenris lets the man’s heart fall from his fingers. His task is done.

It is only then that he realises he was no longer alone.

His head whips up, instantly ready for any battle that might follow, all senses jangling as he attempts to locate his witness. His witness who, when Fenris discovers him, is little more than a boy, barely twenty years of age, but who wears the armour of a Grey Warden. A man whose word would be trusted, then, certainly over that of an elven slave. A man who Fenris cannot afford to leave as a witness.

‘You killed him,’ the boy exclaims, sounding almost comically shocked. ‘What the fuck-’

Fenris steps towards him, blade still drawn, blood dripping from his fingers. The boy has to die, that much is clear. Only… Fenris has never killed anyone who posed no threat to the master, nor who he had not been commanded to kill. His orders had only concerned the one target, who is now dead, not some Fereldan farm boy playing dress up. It is not Master Danarius who requires this boy’s death, merely circumstances. And Fenris is no assassin.

‘I have no wish to fight you,’ he says, and it is true.

The boy’s hand shakes on the hilt of his sword, his nerves rattling down the length of the blade. ‘You killed him, you bastard!’

‘I had my orders. They do not concern you. You need not die today. I have no quarrel with you – permit me to pass and I shall not harm you.’

‘Fuck your orders! Maker, you can’t expect me to just let you go!’

‘If you do not, I will have no choice but to kill you. Do not force my hand to fly at your heart when I would have it remain by my side.’

The boy’s knuckles are white where he grips his sword, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. He is in no state to fight; Fenris would obliterate him. Even over-rolled with grief as he is, the boy seems to realise this. Perhaps he is not a fool. Or perhaps he is simply a fool who wishes to live. Fenris pushes past him, hears the boy’s blade clatter to the ground as he walks away. He does not look back.


End file.
